A Letter to the Man Who Broke My Ankle On Friday Night, Part III

My third day in the hospital was to be my last. I was told I’d get to leave that day—right after physical therapy. If you’ve never been in physical therapy, it’s basically like getting to test out of a difficult academic class except this class is called “Making Sure You Don’t Fall Down As Soon As You Get Home And Then Sue Us.” Waiting for my chance to demonstrate my walking skills for the old lady telling patients about how she almost took her aging father to the upcoming Packers game, I sat next to a couple of elders. Their sparse sprouts of gray hair and double-layered robes preventing the revealing of saggy balls made me feel like I was in a mental ward. After they told me I’d mastered the use of crutches, I got wheeled back to my room and at once got dressed.

A couple of hours later, when the nurses presumably were positive all of the homecoming fun had slowed in Winona, I was allowed to leave. While going from the wheelchair to the car out in the parking lot, I slipped and fell to the ground. Rolling around in pain, I knew right away that I had shattered the metal plate holding my foot together.

Just kidding— but that would’ve really sucked.

I left the hospital with what you call a non-weight bearing splint, meaning I can’t put any weight on it whatsoever. This would be fine if it were a finger, a conscience, or something else that you don’t use very much. But unfortunately, I use my feet. Quite frequently, actually. Next time you do normal events in a day, try and do them without your right leg. Try pouring a bowl of cereal and carrying it across a room. Try showering. Try kicking a 48-yard winning field goal to clinch the division for your team using your right leg. It’s infuriatingly impossible.

I’m pretty sure this break is simply just karma for laughing at disabled people throughout my life. And now it is full circle, as I hobbled to campus yesterday afternoon on crutches. Being new to the whole tripod form of walking, I was really slow and finally arrived dripping with sweat. As if the fact that I was handicapped wasn’t disgusting enough, I probably smelled like how the inside of my cast will in three weeks. Now, I’m the person receiving looks of pity and awkward holding open of doors. Always envious of the perceived laziness that the handicapped enjoyed, I decided to get a wheelchair. Surely, that had to be easier than fumbling around on a pair of huge metal poles, right? Nay.

But that’s not your problem, Man Who Broke My Ankle On Friday Night, is it? I’m sure you have your own problems so I don’t mean to hassle you. I’m sure you have bills and maybe even homework, both of which you likely ignore in favor of raping children and setting flame to orphanages. But still.

Here’s where I get to my point, Man Who Broke My Ankle On Friday Night. I’m not really sure who you are; what your name is, where you’re from, that sort of thing. I’d like to get together sometime—say six weeks, and just chat. How do I get in touch with you? Maybe make a post on Craigslist?

“Missed connection – m4m

U broke my ankle Fri. night around 1:00 – 1:15. Have a huge hospital bill, email me your physical description and let’s hang out sometime.”

Would that work? Would you respond to it? I just want to talk to you. Really.

I can’t say you didn’t teach me a lesson, MWBMAOFN. You did. You taught me that wasting a sandwich once in a while is actually okay and can feel really good when wasted in the correct manner. You also made me realize that I don’t want to live past the age of 49 or whenever I will need to start using a wheelchair or walker for an extended period of time. You also taught me that some people, such as my girlfriend, would rather eat stale hospital food and bathe me with warm, wet rags than experience the glory of sleeping normal hours in a comfortable bed, and relaxing with friends.

Let’s get together and break both of your legs catch up!

-JK (just signing my initials, I am totally serious about the last sentence)